


I Shall Embrace the Light; I Shall Weather the Storm

by CaketinTheHobo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After Haven, Angst, F/M, i guess? im not really used to filling out these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3394496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaketinTheHobo/pseuds/CaketinTheHobo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She had borne a light in this dark time. And if the light had been the same colour as the Breach, the same green that still streaked the sky above Haven, then so be it. Cullen would happily be bathed in its glow again, even if it meant tearing a hole in the sky again.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After the fall of the Herald at Haven, Cullen waits for her to return, even if his mind tells him she will not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Embrace the Light; I Shall Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so this stemmed from when a friend of mine asked for a prompt; I liked it so much that I decided to write it myself and then made myself sad while doing it. You know how it goes. The prompt was:
> 
> "your main ship, person worrying for the inquisitor post-Haven when they's lost in the snow"
> 
> Aaand so became this.
> 
> The title comes from the Chant of Light, Canticle of Trials.

The mountain had fallen silent, an ethereal hush that belied the turmoil that had raged in the lower reaches only hours previous. There was no sign that a battle had been fought, that a battle had been _lost._

Haven had fallen. And so had Anya Lavellan; Herald of Andraste.

The people were quiet as they trekked their way through the pass – either too exhausted or too shocked by the things they had seen. They had all seen their end in Haven – an army headed by a- a _thing –_ and what had looked like archdemon. And they _all_ remembered the Blight; most of the people here were native Fereldan.

 And still the Herald had stood, proud against the scarred sky, as she faced down horrors men could only dream of.

She had been an elf, a spy to the Conclave, yet when she’d found herself thrown head – or hand – first into the centre of political, military, and spiritual turmoil, she’d led them in the task of closing the Breach.

And she’d _done it._ Cullen had seen it with his own eyes – could _still_ see it, the scar lingering in the heavens that was the only reminder of the terrible things that had occurred in the past few months.

But now, now she was gone, buried under snow and ice and rubble. They had seen the mountain fall.

And Cullen knew better than to ask the Maker to return those he cared about to him. He’d learned long ago that the Maker did not listen to him, did not care to turn his gaze to the former Templar who prayed for things he did not deserve.

And yet, he only wished the Maker would listen just this once, hear his plea that the Herald – that Anya Lavellan – be made safe. If it was selfish to ask for his sake, then he would ask for the sake of those around him – for Josephine and Leliana, for Cassandra, and the others Anya had collected along the way. In front of him, Cullen could see Varric – a familiar face from Kirkwall whose jokes and laughter and extraordinary tales didn’t quite hide the sadness that surrounded him – and Dorian, a mage he’d only heard about in reports until now, but who had been so _inspired_ by Anya that he’d made the journey to Haven and faced off against his own countrymen to bring them a warning.

Despite the sombre nature of the party around him, Cullen couldn’t help but smile. That, in a nutshell, had been Anya Lavellan. _Could still be_ Anya Lavellan, if he allowed himself that much hope.

(He didn’t, but his heart hadn’t yet convinced his head that were so.)

The line halted, slowly, as Cassandra and Leliana called them to stop. They would make camp, here, in the shadow of the mountain. Sheltered from the blizzard that now raged in the valley behind them, erasing any trace that they, or anything, had existed. That _she_ had existed.

She had been more than the Dalish who had spied on the Conclave, more than the supposed instigator of the troubles, more than the Herald who stepped out of the Breach with Andraste’s blessing. She had been _pure,_ patient _,_ and kind, too kind for the world to allow to live in such a time.

He’d watched her, when he was supposed to be watching recruits, slowly make her way through the people gathered in the village. She’d spoken to each one, given them her time, laughed at their jokes, not once snapped at them for mocking or speaking out about her heritage.

He remembered their conversations – brief, but meaningful. Her questions about his life as a Templar, and how he’d come to be part of this newly-formed Inquisition. And she’d seen that she’d pried too much, too, when he’d evaded her questions on Kinloch Hold, on the horrors of his past. He’d been grateful for that.

She had borne a light in this dark time. And if the light had been the same colour as the Breach, the same green that still streaked the sky above Haven, then so be it. Cullen would happily be bathed in its glow again, even if it meant tearing a hole in the sky again.

(Selfish. She would not want that.)

For now the light was gone; while they had thought their battle over, they realised that it had only just begun.

But right now, Cullen did not care for battles, or wars. He did not care to be Commander of an Inquisition. He did not care to be the ex-Templar attempting to shake the last vestiges of prolonged exposure to lyrium, something he wasn’t sure he could even defeat.

“Walk with me.”

The voice broke into his thoughts, and he looked up from the pot he’d been staring into, as if that contained the answers he sought.

Cassandra stood before him, face grim but otherwise expressionless. She motioned for him to rise, and soon they were stood a ways from the camp, looking up at the mountain pass they had just travelled through.

“Leliana is sending scouts back,” Cassandra said. “She- I- we-“

“It’s too soon to give up hope,” he said, voice cracking slightly from the cold and disuse. “Or we’re too afraid,” he added, giving voice to his own fear.

(He could not pray to the Maker. The Maker did not listen. But there were those closer to him who could.)

“Perhaps,” Cassandra agreed. “But I see no harm. We need to see if our enemy has survived, in any case.”

He nodded in response, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. The same sword he’d drawn earlier, in defence of their unofficial leader. She’d stood beside him – _before him –_ and remained undaunted, even as the dragon had soared down from the sky and erased all of their efforts to stop the Venatori.

Cullen’s courage had fled at the sight of the archdemon, but Anya Lavellan had not. Perhaps his courage had fled to her, where it had been needed more. Perhaps it was no more, like her, buried under feet of snow with no hope of retrieval.

“We need to think of a way to combat this, to -“ he began, attempting to bring some sense of himself back, to keep himself on track. Cassandra raised a hand, cutting him off. He was grateful, in the end. He wasn’t sure how he would have finished the sentence, otherwise. Not without losing the steadiness in his voice.

“Not tonight,” Cassandra said, sounding as tired as he felt. His head ached, a by-product of his fight with the lyrium, but for now it was numbed, dulled by the knowledge that _she_ was gone.

Before he could respond, they were approached by a soldier, a young woman who was shivering in the cold.

“Sers,” she said, addressing Cullen and Cassandra both. “Sister Nightingale wished me to advise you that her scouts have returned. They report some activity in the woods, wolves or something similar. She-“

“You should find Mother Giselle,” Cassandra broke in, frowning at the soldier’s state of dress. “Or Threnn. They should be able to find you better clothing for this weather.”

Threnn had made it out because the Herald had saved her. She’d broken her way into buildings, lifted burning beams and saved everyone she could, all while fighting a force of mages.

The scout shifted on her feet, uncomfortable in being addressed in such a way. Cullen noted that she hadn’t actually looked at him or Cassandra directly, but past them, towards the pass that led back to Haven.

“Yes,” she said, “I-“

The scout cut herself off, squinting into the distance. After a moment, Cullen turned too, looking back towards the pass that led to Haven.

He wasn’t sure what he saw, but there was _something,_ slowly making its way towards them.

“A wolf?” Cassandra asked, speaking aloud. “It might think it can find some easy prey here.”

They had brought sick and wounded with them. Chancellor Roderick, who had fought a Ventatori mage despite being armed with nothing but a chantry robe. There were others, those who too had stood to fight with the Herald.

“We should see it off,” Cullen said, motioning for the scout to join them. The pack could be nearby after all.

They silently trekked up the mountain, eyes fixed on the object. It moved slowly, gait sluggish, and almost _not_ like a wolf.

“Did you see-“ Cassandra began, but cut herself off. Cullen glanced at her, frowning for a moment, before turning his gaze back on their target.

Except now, it didn’t look much like a wolf. More like a person-

(For a brief moment, he allowed himself hope – it shattered his soul- his mind- his heart- and he _breathed_ again. Maybe the Maker had listened after all.

But he knew that was false. He did not deserve the Maker’s pity.)

He gripped his sword tighter, drawing strength, and focused back on the figure again. Slight build, moving slowly, hurting. A survivor from Haven?

But _there –_ the momentary flash of green, sparking around their left hand.

“It’s her!”

He almost dropped his sword in his haste, only just remembering to sheathe it before he was racing up the steep slope towards the figure, who had fallen to her knees at his shout.

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra said, not far behind him; the scout following too.

She had lived. Just.

They caught her before she fell forward into the snow, and he was already removing his cloak to wrap around her.

Her eyes were barely open, lips blue, ears almost frostbitten. She was holding herself awkwardly, broken ribs most likely, and her left arm was held at an angle to her body, indicating further injury there.

The mark on her palm sparked, fading in and out, reacting to something – Cullen didn’t know what.

“Go find Mother Giselle,” Cassandra barked to the scout. “Then find any mage with healing abilities. Make sure they are ready. She does not have long.”

He brushed his hand across her cheek; her eyelids flickered at the touch but she didn’t respond otherwise. She wasn’t shivering, he noticed – training had taught him that if a body became too cold, it stopped shivering.

“We need to get her back to camp,” he said to Cassandra, pulling himself to his feet. A wave of weariness crossed him, but overall _relief._

Anya Lavellan was alive.

Cassandra carried her – always too aware of Cullen’s periodical lapses in strength – and he felt a _surge_ of something akin to jealousy, as if _he_ should be the one to carry her to safety. He did not have the strength to argue, though. His own feelings and health did not matter.

She responded slightly to being lifted – a sigh that became a moan when Cassandra’s arms came too close to the elf’s ribs. Cullen thought he heard her voice, somewhere in there, attempting to speak, but it was quieted.

“Not tonight,” was all Cassandra said, repeating her earlier phrase. Cullen found himself agreeing. 

* * *

 

Later, after she had been healed and wrapped in layers of blankets; after Dorian had created a fire so warm it melted the snow around them; after Cole had spoken some words that didn’t make sense to him, but gave comfort to Anya; after Cassandra had turned to him and _smiled,_ her first true smile ever since the bells had rung at Haven; did Cullen return to his own seat.

And there, alone, did he allow himself to weep tears of relief, giving thanks to who knew what power had saved her, had brought her back to him.

(He could not pray to the Maker. The Maker did not listen. But Anya Lavellan belonged to a different set of Gods.)

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never actually posted a Dragon Age fic before, despite my many many ideas for one. We'll see how this one goes down, shall we?
> 
> Anya Lavellan is not my canon Inquisitor... well, she is in a sense that she's a Lavellan romancing Cullen but she's not called Anya. So thats why her appearance is kinda ambiguous.
> 
> Kudos/comments etc are soul-food.


End file.
